A mediaeval Seljuk builder whose name has long since been forgotten climbed the ninetieth step, and from a height of 38 metres looked around him. The Mediterranean, that most beautiful of seas, had taken refuge in the tiny harbour below, the last rays of the sun playing on its surface as it set over the Bey Mountains. The shadows of houses leaning shoulder to shoulder darkened the narrow streets winding downhill. A light evening breeze was blowing, carrying the cool scent of oranges from the stone paved courtyards. Wiping the last drop of sweat from his brow with his sleeve, he began to descend the flight of steps winding down inside the minaret, the oil lamp in his hand lighting his way. The Seljuks had arrived in Adalya, as they called Antalya, in 1207, many centuries after King Attalos II of Pergamum had given his name to the city that he described as heaven on earth. Now Sultan Alaeddin I Keykubad (1219-1236) was on the throne, and embellishing the city with the first Islamic works of art.

In a cosmopolitan city where there were Christian merchants of many nations and large communities of Greeks and Jews, a minaret would be the most symbolic structure. The Seljuks did not regard minarets only as parts of mosques, but as monuments in their own right. Of the many fluted and spiralling brick minarets built by the Seljuks, the most impressive of all was the Yivli Minare or Fluted Minaret in Antalya Castle. The minaret rested on an ashlar stone plinth, and its eight flutes were adorned with turquoise glazed bricks. Its Seljuk builder could not have known that for centuries to come his minaret would be the symbol of Antalya. When he completed his task and returned to his humble life, he had no idea that he had set his signature to postcards illustrating the Antalya of the future. For him, this was just an ordinary commission that had to be completed on time. When the Roman emperor Hadrian visited Antalya in the year 130, a gate in the form of a Roman victory arch was built in the castle walls in his honour.

Having descended the last step, the anonymous Seljuk builder turned and locked the minaret door with a great key that he had taken from the sash around his waist. Kissing it, he hung it on the hook. The oil in his lamp was almost finished, and the flame flickered uncertainly. He looked up. It was a full moon, and the sky was bright with thousands of stars. The minaret was completed and his task over. Now it belonged to Antalya, one of the Mediterranean's loveliest cities. He entered one of the streets descending towards the sea that led to his house and walked into oblivion.

* Ersin Toker is a freelance writer